


Empire of Our Own

by auxanges



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Violence, Eye Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hell is empty and all the devils are here." —A man named Shakespeare wrote that, a long time ago, but Wallace knows Shakespeare has never set foot in Ergastulum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> everyone and their mom has probably written pre-benriya, here's my take. crappy teen life: the fic  
> manga-only chapter refs if you squint really hard and maybe close one eye, and also the other eye  
> i don't generally write very long fics but this is gonna be one hopefully. chapters will actually follow one another at any rate, tags added as needed as usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wallace doesn’t look behind him; if he does, he might be tempted to stay, and let his demons chain him down. But one of them is still wearing chains, and that thought propels him forward, reaching a hand to grab Nic’s wrist.

They can’t stay here.

That much is clear to Wallace, but he’s unable to move, on his knees in front of his father’s corpse. It’s not even cold yet: not like Wallace, whose body feels like it’s been leeched of all warmth, all emotion and reason.

His hand is pressed to his eye socket. Pain is gone, too—it’ll come back, he knows. Wallace has read enough medical journals to know about the effects of adrenaline on the body. He doesn’t want to be here when he finally feels it, though. He can’t be found here. And neither can Nicolas.

There’s a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and Wallace jerks away like he’s been burned. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, feeling more like a wounded and cornered animal than someone who owns the only other living soul in the estate.

Nic’s hand wavers in midair before lowering again. It’s bare, bloodstained; disgustingly sincere. If Wallace looks at it too long, he’ll have to answer questions he doesn’t want to.

A long silence follows, then. Nicolas stands at an angle to read any words that might manage to escape Wallace’s lips. His katana’s at his side, neatly sheathed and perhaps the only part of the both of them left unstained tonight. It twists something inside Wallace to know that Nicolas won’t try anything unless he tells him to: that even after this—this _mistake_ , he’ll follow Wallace anywhere.

Wallace doesn’t know whether to thank him or detest him for it.

When he finally opens his mouth to speak again, his voice is cracked, free of his previous venom. It seeps out from his lungs and pools to the floor under his knees. “We have to go. Get your stuff.”

Nicolas has a look on his face like he wants to say something, but as usual he doesn’t, and obediently turns to begin the body-strewn obstacle course to his bunk. Wallace watches him go with blurred vision and a cold grip around his heart before forcing himself to his feet.

*

Neither of them have very much to carry. Nicolas is bundled in a comically large coat, the pockets packed with as much Celebrer as he can find. Wallace finds gauze in the bathroom to put over his eye and digs through his things for money. He meets Nicolas in the foyer just in time to see the other boy squeeze a beaten book in his coat.

Nic glances at him. _Where are we going?_

“Away from here.” Wallace looks around, more out of habit than of actual fear: it will be a while before any cops show up. He hopes to be long gone by then. “Somewhere safe.”

Wallace knows Nic has improved at reading lips, but a puzzled expression still ghosts over his face at the word “safe”.  

“We’ll figure it out,” he assures him, ignoring how tired he sounds. He has no energy for this, no energy to be upset or scared or vengeful. Nic can’t hear the difference, anyway. “Hey. It’s like we’re finally running away.”

Nicolas nods the slightest bit.

Wallace doesn’t look behind him; if he does, he might be tempted to stay, and let his demons chain him down. But one of them is still wearing chains, and that thought propels him forward, reaching a hand to grab Nic’s wrist. Wallace’s fingers touch when they wrap around it.

“Come on,” he says to no one in particular. Pain shoots through his skull the moment Wallace sets foot outside the estate with Nicolas in tow. The stars are out, but neither boy looks anywhere but forward.

*

They walk for hours, until they flag down a truck carrying uniforms of some kind. The fact that the driver doesn’t bat an eyelash at Wallace’s lack of an explanation for their state is enough to tell him that they’re headed in the same direction: a place where no one cares for your story. A place to wipe slates clean.

Wallace doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because when he opens his eye he’s covered in a coat that vaguely smells of metal. Slivers of golden dawn filter through cracks in the truck’s back doors.

Nicolas looks up when Wallace begins to stir. **“coLD is… BAd. SLOws yoU dOWn.”**

It’s hard to tell if it’s a kind gesture, or a foreign sort of apology for his actions. Wallace is leaning towards a third option, one of Nic’s existence as an efficient soldier hardwired in the body of a child. He cracks a wry smile. “You’ll be cold now, though.”

Nic doesn’t reply: it’s too dim in the truck for conversation, so Wallace leans forward to give one of his boots a tug. Nicolas scoots closer, across some invisible threshold into reluctant warmth. Their elbows bump against one another.

Wallace curls up, resting his head on his knees before bouncing up again and hissing in pain. Nicolas doesn’t comment; he isn’t watching, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall of the truck—beyond the wall, really, in an outside world that’s suddenly become a lot bigger to the both of them. Wallace wonders if Nic is able to see something he can’t, some kind of future without marred faces and hearts and pill bottles that rattle with every pothole they drive over.

Outside, the Sun continues to rise, unhurried and oblivious to the creatures in the back of the truck. They ride out half the day, until clouds cover the sky over a looming city like grey sheets. A strange weight fills the air; a heaviness that falls onto Nic and Wallace’s shoulders and perches expectantly. Wallace shifts closer to him. Nicolas smells like blood, but he doesn’t smell like his house, and that’s enough.

*

Wallace spikes a fever some two hours before they arrive at whatever destination he’d been planning. Nicolas feels the tug on his sleeve, weak and pleading, catches the movement of his remaining eye under his lid: the patch over the other one is blooming red again. A cold sweat plasters Wallace’s hair to his forehead, and dry lips call for his father.

Nicolas raps his knuckles against the side of the truck. The driver says something in the rearview mirror, but Nic can’t catch it, and the truck doesn’t stop. He feels the familiar tingle of nerves itching for action.

They ride along like birds in a cage. Wallace’s head is in Nic’s lap, over his coat: Nic wrestled him into a hoodie he found in one of the boxes surrounding them, but he’s shivering against the shorter boy. Nicolas places a tentative hand on his forehead, a mimicry of a gesture he’s seen a doctor do, once. Wallace is burning, persistent embers from a bloody blaze set by Nic’s hand, its smoldering remains miles and miles behind them.

Lightning flashes between the cracks, bluish-white. It must be raining.

Sometimes Wallace sleeps, and sometimes he doesn’t. It’s a fitful sort of sleep, the kind that Nicolas fears will plague him one day but hasn’t, not yet, and the thought that it may never happen lingers in his mind until the truck shudders to a stop. Nicolas catches the shine of a flashlight outside.

 _What do I do?_ he signs, low and quick. _What am I supposed to do?_

Wallace’s eye is closed again. Nic is ready to make a break for it, trying to figure out the best way to carry Wallace with his hands free to fight his way out, when the truck lurches forward again.

Nicolas holds his breath until the truck stops for good, and lets it out when the driver bangs against the window separating them. He gives Wallace a shake: he receives a pained frown and a blank stare up at him in return. He jerks a thumb to the back of the truck.

Wallace’s arms tremble when he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Nic ties his jacket around his waist and hooks his sword through a belt loop. Satisfied, he hops out the back of the truck: rain falls in curtains and obscures his visibility, but he can make out the striped checkpoint bar in the distance from where they came.

Wiry arms motion for Wallace to move closer. He mumbles something that Nic only partially understands – “…years old, I can… myself” – but when Wallace slides off the lip of the truck he stumbles, and Nic catches him after all.

Wallace is still warm, a familiar kind coupled with the feverish burning of his skin. For a moment, the pair remain unmoving, like entwined statues—Wallace’s arms around his neck for support, Nic’s hands locked behind his back to keep him from falling. The sky above them weeps harder. The truck is already gone.

A doctor. He needs to find a doctor.

Nic doesn’t wait to see if Wallace will say anything—he’s sinking lower against him, anyway, and if that isn’t a sign to go with his gut he doesn’t know what is. Nicolas twists and hoists Wallace onto his back. His shoe taps the sword at his hip.

Wallace is awake enough to hold on, or at the very least find a grip that will stop him from falling. Nicolas looks around, squinting through the rain at chipped signs and flickering neon lights. What kind of city is this? Where are they? What’s Wallace done?

What’s _he_ done?

Nicolas adjusts his arms under Wallace’s calves and sets off. His boots slip this way and that on the rain-slicked cobblestones of the streets: he digs his heels in like a proper soldier. Some problems are easier to fix than others.

He steals a glance at a rooftop, fat drops of rain catching in his hair, running down his face and the tags at his chest. He’d get his bearings faster up there, even in this shitty weather, but he can’t leave Wallace. So he presses forward, through narrow streets and narrower alleys. Every shadow makes his nerves scream, his empty palm burn for weight of familiar metal. Nicolas does not like it here.

A faded red cross materializes into view, and suddenly Nic isn’t sure what to do. In this—this place, would he even be let in? Would they throw more pills at him and leave him in the rain? What about Wallace?

Nicolas grits his teeth and gives the front door three light kicks. Wallace’s breath is soft against the back of his neck.

The door opens and reveals a serious-looking woman in a lab coat. She looks at Nicolas expectantly over the rim of her glasses: he sees the flicker of her eyes from his face to his tags and back.

He’s tempted to bow, but Wallace compromises that option, so he’ll have to use one he likes even less.

**“pLeaSe…”**

The woman – the doctor? – raises her eyebrows, and Nicolas holds her curious gaze. In his periphery, he gets a glimpse of a boy behind her, with round spectacles and a solemn expression. She waits for him to continue.

**“mY…my Fr—”**

Nic stops, choking on his own plea. **“my…CoNtraCT hOldER.”** He swallows the words before they lodge in his throat and nods towards Wallace: his head is against his shoulder, a fragile cross to bear.

The doctor purses her lips, then leans forward, looking left and right, before motioning for Nicolas to come inside. The door shuts behind them, and Nic doesn’t hear it but he feels it like thunder in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is from this song by raign btw! <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwP0BquR_C8>


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next two weeks pass by in a haze of painkillers and vivid dreams that Wallace wishes he could forget the moment he jerks awake. It’s usually in the middle of the night: Nicolas sleeps in a chair at the end of the bed, his head in his arms resting near Wallace’s feet, oblivious to the occasional shouts and sirens outside the clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love baby theo  
> im also not a medical professional so if the description is vague its bc its better this way trust me

Wallace wakes with a start, to harsh whiteness and the smell of peroxide. Under his sweat-soaked shirt, his heart hammers away in his chest, a reminder that he’s somehow still alive. There’s a drip hooked up to his arm; his head is bandaged and heavy. But he’s alive.

Alive _where_ , though?

“You’re awake.”

Wallace jumps at the unfamiliar voice, pulling at the starchy sheets of his cot. His vision is hazy, but the pain behind his bandage has reduced to a dull ache. “Who’s there?”

A boy – or at least Wallace thinks it’s a boy – is standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket and the other pushing up a pair of oval glasses. He’s short: shorter than Nicolas, with serious features and a bored expression.

“You’re not from around here,” the boy remarks, more a statement than a question.

Wallace shakes his head. “West of here. I think. Where is, uh, here, by the way…?”

“Welcome to Ergastulum,” the boy says, stepping in to check on Wallace’s IV. “You don’t need both eyes to see that it sucks.”

So they did make it, after all. Wallace feels relief wash over him, or maybe it’s the drugs. He tries to blink away the remnants of sleep. “Where’s Nic?”

The boy frowns. “The kid who brought you in? He’s sleeping in the hall.” He hesitates. “He can’t…he can’t hear, can he?”

Another shake of the head.

“I see.” The boy seems lost in thought for a moment, before remembering Wallace is there. “I’m Theo. My mom’s the doctor.”

“Wallace.” He can’t be older than nine, Wallace thinks, but this is the first child he’s seen in a long time. “Listen, uh, Theo, is your mom around? I guess I should thank her for patching me up.”

Theo nods. “She’s with a patient, but I can tell her to come up and see you. She should be done by the time you’re awake again.”

“Again?”

Theo’s eyes flicker to the IV by Wallace’s bed and back to his face pointedly. “Nice to meet you, Wallace.”

His lids are already heavy with sleep again. Wallace is sick of sleeping, but lets his eye close once more. When he wakes for good, a woman is rewinding his bandage, and Nicolas has migrated from the hall to the room, quietly crouched in the corner with his arms around his knees.

It’s familiar enough to make his head hurt.

He turns to face the woman and forces a strained smile. “You’re the doctor, right? You wouldn’t happen to have a lighter on you…?”

*

Nicolas refuses a bed from the get go, but lets the doctor clean his cut hand and check him for injuries he knows he doesn’t have. Some motherly instinct of hers offers him a bath: Nicolas gingerly accepts, glancing over his shoulder at Wallace’s cot before leaving to find the bathroom.

He doesn’t intend to stay long, but the hot water soothes his tired muscles and unknots the tension in his spine. Nicolas is exhausted—he could use a dosage, probably, but he wants to run it by Wallace first. The notion of a limited supply of Celebrer settles uneasily in the pit of his stomach.

Nic scrubs at his skin, until the bathwater turns brown with dirt and blood he’s responsible for. The doctor gave him extra clothes – “they’re my son’s, but they should fit you while I wash yours” – and Nicolas towels off quickly and changes into them. They’re soft, and have a flowery smell to them. The pants are a bit short, though; his ankles peek out from the bottoms. He loops his tags around his neck and shakes water from his hair.

Nicolas drains the tub and opens the door, and almost crashes headfirst into the doctor’s son. What’s his name again? Theo? Nicolas tries to dodge him and head back to Wallace’s room, but Theo blocks him.

“You _are_ a Twilight,” he says, or at least that’s what Nicolas assumes he says, because he reaches a hand out to grab his tags for a closer look. Nic’s head is jerked forward and down, and he scowls at the shorter boy.

He must look intimidating enough: Theo drops the metal tags like they’re on fire. “Sorry. I was curious.”

Nicolas straightens, looking back at the room. The doctor is still sitting by Wallace’s bed, and whatever they’re talking about is making Wallace frown. He can picture the pull of his bandages, and his thumb brushes over his palm unconsciously.

Theo follows his gaze. “Come on.”

Nic follows him, settling in the corner by a small window. Theo follows suit.

From here, he can see Wallace’s face. His right eye is uncovered, and has the same invisible barrier over it that Nic’s seen since they’ve met. But even from this far away, he can tell Wallace is nervous. His fingers hover over the bandage, where his eye should be.

He feels a tug on his sleeve. “Was it you?” Theo asks.

Nicolas raises an eyebrow.

“You know.” Theo points to his left eye, behind his glasses. “Was it you?”

He doesn’t reply, and Theo doesn’t ask a third time. Instead, “He says you can’t hear.”

Nic shakes his head.

“You don’t look like much of a talker, either. You know sign language?”

Nicolas knocks on the wall beside him, getting Wallace’s attention. _This kid’s getting on my nerves._

Wallace grins, then flinches as the bandages tighten around his face. Beside him, Theo frowns, then shrugs and shifts his position a little. Nicolas is about to turn away when he opens his mouth again. “She’s saying he can get a—”

Nic doesn’t know the last word, but Theo is pointing to his eye again. He frowns, copying the motion.

Theo seems to understand. “A fake one,” he rephrases, “nothing really fancy, but it’s better than nothing.” He’s calm, his eyes fixed on Wallace and his mother. “If he wants it, she’ll do it, and keep him here until he recovers. You can stay, too.” He pauses. “It’s probably safer in here than out there.”

Wallace nods at something the doctor says. He reaches under the blanket and pulls a handful of bills, handing them with a small smile that makes Nic’s chest constrict. He chalks it up to withdrawal symptoms.

Safe. That’s what Wallace had said, too.

He _really_ doesn’t like it here.

When Wallace turns and meets his gaze again, though, Nicolas decides he can wait it out.

*

The next two weeks pass by in a haze of painkillers and vivid dreams that Wallace wishes he could forget the moment he jerks awake. It’s usually in the middle of the night: Nicolas sleeps in a chair at the end of the bed, his head in his arms resting near Wallace’s feet, oblivious to the occasional shouts and sirens outside the clinic.

The bandages come off, but the gauze stays on, doctor’s orders. It covers half of Wallace’s face and the tape sticks to his bangs. The doctor offers to cut his hair: he refuses. Short hair would only remind him of a dead man.

Nic’s been going out, accompanying Theo around the neighbourhood as he points out buildings of use to them—the tobacco shop, the markets, the police station. The empty buildings, the ones to avoid. The mafia headquarters, the speakeasies, the brothels, the alleyways that reek of death and neglect. Every time Nicolas returns, he lowers himself into his chair and tells Wallace what he’s seen, until sleep pulls at his eyelids and he reluctantly naps, the afternoon Sun beating on his slim back through the window.

On the sixth day, Nic drops a pack of cigarettes on his cot before heading for the shower. Wallace turns the thin box over in his hands: it’s the same kind he usually smokes. Nicolas remembered.

He probably shouldn’t smoke in a doctor’s clinic, but Wallace is pretty sure he’s earned at least one. He opens the box and reaches for the lighter with one hand, picking up a smoke with the other—

Only his hand lands on his father’s wrist, tight and pleading, pushing in vain against the hand gripping the cigarette, its embers edging closer and closer to his face, and he can’t move, he can’t _move_ —

Fingers brush against his hand and Wallace jumps, breaching the surface of pained memory like a man starving for oxygen. His hands are shaking.

Nicolas carefully pries the lighter from Wallace’s grip – it’s tight enough to turn his knuckles white – and flicks it, holding the flame out between them. Nic’s hands are small, and steady, and they’ve ruined Wallace’s life.

Haven’t they?

Wallace holds the cigarette between his lips with trembling fingers and leans forward. It catches, and he breathes in: it soothes his nerves almost immediately, and a pleasant buzz disperses the recollections to the furthest corners of his mind, to be dug up later, in sleep again.

Nic remains in his position on the cot, one leg folded under him, the other dangling off the side of the bed, watching Wallace smoke his cigarette to the filter. His expression is guarded as usual, but Wallace can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason that Nicolas keeps the lighter in his hand, if there’s motive behind the lingering of his bandaged palm and cold fingers when he returns it and leaves in search of food.

After three and a half weeks, just as cabin fever begins to set, the doctor deems Wallace fit for release. Nic is packed in minutes—clearly Wallace is not the only one ready to leave.

The doctor meets them at the front door with prescription painkillers and bootleg Celebrer in a paper bag. “I’d give it to you at no charge,” she apologizes as Wallace thumbs a few more bills from his pocket, “but after a while in this city you’ll see why I run my business the way I do.” She hesitates. “You’re both young. This doesn’t have to be a final destination for you.”

Wallace shrugs. “Not too many complaints so far.” He tosses the bag to Nic, who catches it easily. His coat and sword are under one arm.

The doctor looks unconvinced. “Do you at least have a place to stay?”

Wallace nods and is relieved when Nic does the same. “Thanks for everything.”

“Don’t let me see you again too soon.”

*

Nicolas leads Wallace through winding side roads and thin alleys. They pause when he taps his shoulder, to tie his shoelaces and get his bearings; to note buildings, and signs, and faces, all to recall later and keep himself occupied.

Off the beaten path, in a district suspiciously close to total abandonment, they reach a cathedral: Wallace has been to Mass once, maybe twice in his short life, when his father pretended to have a faith other than money. Nicolas has probably never seen a church before, judging from the way his mouth falls open as he stares up at the imposing spire and the domed roof.

Of all places Wallace had expected to have a church, this is not one of them—whatever God exists out there has abandoned Ergastulum a long time ago. The bricks are faded, and chipped graffiti tags pepper the walls.

“Come on. Let’s find a side door.”

The inside of the cathedral is as forlorn as the outside. Layers of dust coat the pews, disturbed only by empty bottles and their shadows. Wallace’s shoes squeak against the granite floor and its cracked tiles. High, high above their heads, arches join and stretch across the ceiling. Stained-glass windows filter in red-yellow-blue sunlight on the pair. A grand piano sits in wait down the steps from the altar, the lid closed and the keys covered, its sleek black body obscured by more dust. The entire place smells old, like parchment and extinguished candles.

Wallace runs a hand through his hair. “What do you think, Nic?”

Beside him, Nicolas is fixed on the windows, at the patterns and depictions of angels and saints, swords and spears and vanquished demons.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here. A man named Shakespeare wrote that, a long time ago, but Wallace knows Shakespeare has never set foot in Ergastulum.

Nic turns to him: his boots echo off the gilded walls. _Where should I put our things?_

“Anywhere.” Wallace spreads his arms and gestures to the pews. “This is all ours.”

Satisfied, Nicolas dumps his coat and the bag on the nearest bench. A cloud of dust carries off any remnants of their past home into the air, mixing with the rays of light before disappearing altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the strings suddenly moves—it buzzes to life, vibrating with the push of a hammer. Nic gawks at the string, then back at Wallace.  
> He’s grinning, one finger pressed down on a key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second half of the chapter makes up for the first half im sorry wallace i love you...  
> my friend and i have talked about wallace playing the piano a good bit and its one of my fav headcanons this is so self indulgent but hear me out on it

The bells in the cathedral have stopped ringing long ago: time is instead measured in the popping of caps, in the scuffle of shoes, between breaths in sleep. Wallace is good at a lot of things, but keeping track of time isn’t one of them. Glances out the colourful windows don’t yield many clues to the outside world—they don’t bother the city, the city doesn’t bother them.

Of course, it can’t stay that way.

Wallace memorizes the locations of the closest shops for food, and when the time comes they make their way through the labyrinth of brick and limestone to the next district. More children surface in the alleyways; tags around their necks give off a dull glint that makes Wallace’s good eye ache. Nicolas looks straight ahead.

At night, Nic swallows his Celebrer while Wallace lights candles. They’ve taken to playing a game together: Wallace calls to mind a book he’s read, and recites as much as he can with his hands instead of his mouth. They sit cross-legged on a pew, facing one another, the candlelight carving shadows into their faces and beneath their eyes. Neither of them are sure how to win the game, but neither particularly minds—Nic provides the signs for words that escape Wallace’s lips despite his best efforts, and Wallace offers stories so willingly Nicolas can’t refuse.

His supply is running low. Nic spaces his dosages further apart, and sleeps with the doctor’s paper bag within arms’ reach. On some nights, they end up sleeping in shifts, more on accident than anything, and on those nights Wallace watches the corners of his mouth turn slightly downwards, serious both awake and in dreams.

Do Twilights even dream?

Wallace sneaks away on one such night, after draping Nic’s coat over the other boy’s back and holding his shoes in one hand so Nic can’t feel his footsteps. It’s not that Wallace doesn’t want Nicolas to know: if there’s any way to keep them out of more trouble that they can handle, at least for a little while, then that’s the road Wallace will take.

This particular road brings him to a district he remembers passing, but hasn’t set foot in yet. It’s bright: neon signs and dimming streetlamps flicker over his head. Reverberating bass rattles his heart in his ribcage from behind closed doors.

Alone on a street corner like this, it doesn’t take long to hear what he’s been hoping for.

“You lost?”

She’s pretty. Long legs, sandy hair and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Wallace shakes his head and smiles. “Nah. Just looking for some company.”

“I was about to head back to my place.” She pauses, and Wallace feels her lingering stare like a slap to the face.

He doesn’t let his smile waver. “Sorry. I know I’m kind of damaged goods…”

And just like that, the freckled girl melts, green eyes wide and apologetic enough to make him want to gag. “Oh, no, no no, sweetie…” she grabs his hand: hers are cold, like Nic’s. “My apartment isn’t far.”

Wallace beams up at her. “You’re too kind.”

“Don’t be silly.” She fishes in her purse for something, and Wallace doesn’t miss it when she pockets a handful of bills before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and closing it again. At least he must look the part. “You smoke?”

“Please.”

*

Wallace loses his virginity on a second-hand couch, with hair in his face and money shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. He’s an awkward mess of growing limbs and frayed nerves, but it somehow works in his favour. He wishes he could feel more excitement, even as he fingers the paper bills while the freckled girl reaches for her shirt. But all he feels is a strange sense of dread, tight and heavy in his stomach.

“Can I use your shower?”

“Sure. First door on your right.”

He grins. “Thanks.”

“No. Thank _you_.”

Wallace turns the water as hot as it will go, and stands under the shower head until steam fills his lungs and the spray makes his healing eye sting and burn. He dries off and dresses mechanically, going through the motions: the sex was mechanical too, probably, but his mind is racing too quickly to settle on that thought for long.

He finds the entrance. The freckled girl finds her shirt. Wallace raises a hand in a wave. “Buy me again?”

“When?”

“I’ll be around.” Wallace turns the knob. It’s still dark out; stragglers stumble across the street in varying degrees of drunkenness.

“Wait,” she calls, and hands him another cigarette. “Consider it a tip. But hey…What should I call you?”

Wallace opens his mouth to accept the tip, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand for a light. “Mm…” There it is. He strikes the lighter and watches it spark. “Worick.”

She smirks. “That your real name?”

“You asked what you should call me, not my real name.” Wallace pushes the door open with his elbow. “Buy me again,” he repeats, over his shoulder.

He waits until he’s a block away to sink to his knees behind a foreclosed shop, his hands over his mouth to catch any sobs that won’t escape. The street is cold under him: Wallace feels like he’s burning from the inside out. The money in his pocket weighs him down like rocks. He’s put a price on himself.

But then again, it’s not the first time he’s put a price on someone.

Time continues to crawl along, and Wallace lurches to his feet when the first thin rays of pink light breach the horizon. The cathedral looms into view, its windows dark and foreboding. It’s a welcome sight; Wallace is tired.

Nicolas is awake when he closes the side door behind him. His coat is sliding off one shoulder. _You were gone._

“Couldn’t sleep.” Not a lie, but not the complete truth, either. Wallace faces Nic so he can read his lips, but his eyes are fixed on the floor.

That must frustrate Nicolas: he digs the toe of one boot into the tile impatiently until Wallace looks back up at him.   _I didn’t know where you were. You could have been in trouble._

“Trouble?” Wallace laughs dryly. His throat feels like sandpaper. “You’re the only trouble I have right now.”

Nic flinches. It’s rare for Wallace to strike a nerve in the other boy, and he immediately feels bad. He hastily adds, “I’m fixing it, though. I’m taking care of it.”

_Alone?_

“What choice do I have, Nic?”

Nicolas hesitates. His hands waver at chest level, his fingers tapping against one another. _I want to help you._

“You’ve helped me plenty,” Wallace shoots back. His eye throbs under the thick patch the doctor gave him. “I said I’m taking care of it. Okay? It’s safer for you here.”

**“NOwhEre is sAfe fOR me.”**

Wallace starts. Nic’s voice is rough with disuse, and in the hollow chambers of the cathedral it hangs in the cool air of predawn, full of questions Wallace doesn’t know the answers to, most of them beginning and ending with ‘why’.

He runs a hand over his face. “Nic…”

_I don’t need to hide. It’s not worth—_

“Fucking _listen_ to me, Nicolas!” Wallace grabs the other boy’s forearms. “You took—you took everyone from me. Everyone! Except you, and that’s just because I stopped you.”

It’s Nic’s turn to look away. Wallace gives him a shake, and he snaps back to attention. “You’re all I have left. You really think I’d let you take that away from me too?! I can’t let that happen!”

His grip loosens, and he lowers his head. “I can’t…I don’t want that to happen.”

Nicolas doesn’t see the last part, but he doesn’t move his arms until Wallace lets go and sags onto the nearest pew, deflated. He crouches beside it, in front of Wallace’s feet. His tags clink together, a bell chime in their own right.

_It won’t._

Wallace sighs. He could use a smoke. “You make it sound simple.”

Nicolas shrugs. _Why not? You’re my boss. Tell me not to die, and I won’t._

Wallace stares at him through his bangs, then bursts into incredulous laughter. “Your boss. I’m the shittiest boss in the world!” He pushes hair from his face, swallowing down his giggles before they explode into full-blown hysterics again. “I didn’t…I didn’t buy you to be your boss, Nic. You’re my friend.”

Nic’s head is tilted, curious, and Wallace takes comfort in the realization that his guard is down. He takes him by the shoulders and raises him to his level.

A smile twitches at Nic’s lips. _I’m the shittiest friend in the world._

“Nowhere to go but up, then.”

By the time Nicolas pulls off his coat and lays it over him, Wallace is already asleep.

*

Nicolas explores every corner of their haven, every slab of rock and every ornate archway. He finds a stairway behind the altar (Wallace says it’s a crypt, and not to go down without him because he wants to see too), and an old decanter of red wine that he immediately spits out. He scales a pillar and nestles in one of the windowsills: Saint George defeats a dragon behind him, and Nicolas brings up his sword to meet his. Greens and blues reflect off the metal and illuminate the floor below.

He traces the glass with one finger. Behind the dye and wood and stone, the city shudders to life, and Nicolas plays at the chain of his tags. From his perch, he can see Wallace reading the sign language manual Nic’s been keeping in his pocket. He’s on the piano bench, one elbow leaning on the cover, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip in concentration as he thumbs through the pages.

Nic takes his time hopping down, stretching his arms. Wallace looks up when his boots connect with solid ground. “Morning. You hungry? We have bread left, and I got some more bottles of water the other day.”

He shakes his head. _Do you play?_

“Do I play wh—” Wallace’s confusion morphs into apprehension. “Oh. Yeah, actually.” His fingers drum against the lid of the piano. “My father made me take lessons.”

Nicolas reaches over and gives the fall an upwards tug. It opens with little resistance, and the keys shine a brilliant white like they were played yesterday.

Wallace gingerly touches one with his index. Nic’s eyes rove over the uncovered instrument, before shifting to the lid. It opens just as easily, and he stares at the rows of strings beneath it, holding it open with one hand.

One of the strings suddenly moves—it buzzes to life, vibrating with the push of a hammer. Nic gawks at the string, then back at Wallace.

He’s grinning, one finger pressed down on a key.

Hastily, Nic fastens the lid in place, the gaping black mouth of the instrument. _Play something._

“Like what?”

_Doesn’t matter, I want to see._

“You’re such a kid.”

But Wallace puts away the book and shifts on the bench, twisting a knob below the seat until his feet touch the pedals. His foot presses down and the dampers lift. Nicolas doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the first hammer connects and the strings come alive.

Wallace’s brow is furrowed, his visible eye lost in thought beneath his lashes. Nic wrenches his eyes away from the body of the piano to watch his hands; hands he’s grown familiar enough with, but has never seen move like this. His fingers brush over the ivory and ebony in succession, a featherlight touch – a kiss – here, a heavier movement there. Wallace’s body moves with his hands, swaying slightly, the foot not occupying the pedal balancing on its toes.

He moves to an end of the board, fingers splayed in great chords that dance up the octaves. Nicolas presses his hands to the inside of the piano’s body: the vibrations grow, and travel up his arms and settle in the marrow of his bones. The steady bounce of the hammers create waves, and Nic wonders if it’s possible to drown in silence like this.

At some point – far too early, in Nic’s opinion – the piece ends, and Wallace’s hands linger on the keys until he releases the pedal. He lets out a breath: The walls around them seem to exhale, too, heavy with confessions Wallace has whispered into the keys through his fingers.

When he looks up at Nicolas, Wallace’s eye is piercing, but in a far less accusatory way than the night prior. “I haven’t played for anyone other than my family before.”

_Sorry. I can’t tell you if you’re any good._

That earns him a laugh.

Nic plucks one of the strings with his thumb and first finger. _What does it sound like?_ He asks with his free hand.

Wallace thinks for a moment. “Like…relief. Like a weight’s been taken off your shoulders.” He leans back on the bench, bracing against his hands to stare at the ceiling. His face is relaxed, and Nicolas is almost tempted to tell him he doesn’t have to hear to have his burdens eased.

He taps the lid. _Play something else._

“Again?! Aw, I wanna smoke…”

_If you don’t play, I will._

“Smokes can wait!”

Nicolas lets himself sink to the floor, his head and upper back resting against one of the piano’s legs. Wallace plays something new, from the keys to the hammers into Nic, like an extension of the instrument, or maybe an extension of Wallace himself.

Wallace is Saint George and Nic is the sword.

He lets his eyes close and hopes whatever dragon is sleeping in Ergastulum sleeps a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the piece wallace is playing! <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEdSdtztfLQ>


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He seldom smiles, never laughs, not in the time that Wallace has known him. So when Nic propels himself off the ground to meet the other Twilight in midair with his teeth bared and his lips twisted upward, Wallace’s blood turns to ice, out of equal parts fear and fascination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was getting long so i cut it, the next part should be up by the end of the week  
> thank you again for all the comments and kudos! even if i don't respond to your comment i promise i read it and probably blushed in front of my screen

Nic’s thirteenth birthday comes and goes with little fanfare. They scrounge up enough cash for a hot supper that they eat on a nearby roof. Wallace eats slowly: he’s in no rush to get back. Besides, Nicolas seems at ease up here, standing on the edge of the roof looking down at the streets below them. He’s already finished his food—Wallace hasn’t noticed that Nic’s grown some until now.

He swallows the last of his meal and stands to meet Nicolas. His footing is less sure on the sloping red shingles, though, and he ends up wobbling and grabbing the back of Nic’s collar for balance. “Sorry.”

Nicolas doesn’t answer past a shrug. Wallace smooths down the fabric absently and follows his gaze across the district, over the tops of people’s heads and the splashes of colour on the walls of buildings. “It’s not very pretty.”

Nic raises an eyebrow. _Neither are you._

Wallace makes an indignant noise and punches him in the arm. “Am too! This pretty face pays for your shit, which is expensive, by the way.”

 _You’re not getting paid to be cute._ Nicolas feigns injury, amusement sparking in his eyes.

“You’re right, it’s just a bonus!”

There’s a certain comfort in the lightness of it all: Nic reads Wallace like a book from his library, it’d be pointless trying to hide his burdens from him. The tightness in his stomach loosens when they can relax like this, and Wallace laughs easily in the warm afternoon Sun.

Wallace’s own birthday is none the more exciting, with the exception of a new employer making him an offer on a street corner not long after.

“Her club is in Corsica territory,” he tells Nic, kicking off his shoes and resting his legs on a bench one night. Nicolas repeats the fingerspelling, a frown creasing his features when he recognizes the name from other, less savoury stories Wallace has relayed to him. “I know it’s not…ideal, but—Nic, it’s a job. Like, a stable one. We can make more money now!”

Nicolas looks uncertain, but he nods anyway, eager to give Wallace the answer he’s looking for. His fingers tighten around the paper bag with his supply inside.

*

Wallace is a people person. It’s not exactly something he would have guessed about himself, and certainly not something Nic would have guessed about him, but when they count the money shoved in his pockets and the waistband of his jeans come morning Nicolas figures Wallace must be doing more than a few things right.

Nic looks up from his soda bottle and taps at his elbow. _Is it dangerous? Corsica territory?_

Wallace’s eyebrows knit together; the left one almost disappears under his patch. “Not any more than any other place in this city.”

He’s not convinced, and Wallace must be able to tell, because he crosses his arms. “Look. I’m gonna need you to trust me on this one.”

 _I do trust you. It’s_ —Nic gestures around him, beyond the walls of the church to the furthest reaches of the city’s gates. It’s raining again: the candles flicker every time the floor vibrates from thunder. _…it’s everything else I don’t trust._

Wallace brings a thumb to his lips in thought, his teeth digging into the soft skin. “That’s fine. I’m the only one you have to trust. You’re the only one I have to trust.” He holds up a hand before Nic can so much as open his mouth. “And don’t tell me trusting a Twilight’s a bad idea! I already know that.”

He grins, extending a pinky finger. Nicolas stares at it like it’s a soggy vegetable.

“We’re partners, you and me.”

Nicolas holds his gaze. Wallace, he is learning, has eyes like ice. In the wavering warmth of the candles, they melt enough to reveal stormier waters beneath the guarded exterior; an unpredictable blue.

It’s almost enough to make him wish he’d kept the other one, after all.

He brings up his hand and links his little finger with Wallace’s. _Partners_ , he mouths.

Wallace gives his finger a squeeze and plucks the soda from his other hand to take a swig. He pretends to spit in it, and Nicolas reaches for it in protest.

The ground shakes beneath their feet.

*

It happens four weeks or so later, on the trek back from the tobacco shop. They duck into a back alley and Wallace almost slams into someone. “Watch were you’re—”

The click of a gun reaches his ears before he looks up: it’s aimed at his head, held by big hands attached to burly, heavily tattooed arms.

“You’re one of Mama’s whores.”

Wallace’s mouth runs dry and he slowly raises his hands. The guy’s easily twice his size, red-faced and unwavering. Out of the corner of his eye, Wallace can see a second man leaning against a dumpster, loading his weapon lazily. He hears another gun being cocked behind him, and Nic’s breathing slows. “Look, I don’t want any troub—”

The gun makes a whistling noise as the guy whips it down across his face. Wallace reels back: the sting of his cheek is too familiar, and his eye throbs behind his patch as he cradles it with one hand.

“Don’t run your mouth, pretty boy, I know where it’s been.” The gunman waves his weapon as if to emphasize. “Cash. I know you have some.”

There’s only silence behind him, but Wallace can’t tell if the pulse roaring in his ears belongs to him or to Nicolas.

They could make a break for it, maybe. Wallace’s mind races, mapping exits, recalling shortcuts and dead ends in case they give chase. He’s defenseless; Nicolas is outnumbered, outgunned. Alone.

He twists the hand still in the air as subtly as he can, into the sign for “ready,” and hopes Nic sees it.

The guy pointing the gun at him narrows his eyes. “The fuck is that supposed to be? The runt behind you trying to run away fr…”

He trails off suddenly, his eyes moving from Wallace’s hand to the air above his head.

“Holy sh—”

Nic’s boot connects with his spine and he drops like a stone, motionless at Wallace’s feet.

Well. That’s not quite what he had in mind, but he’s not going to complain.

A gunshot from behind him misses and ricochets off the dumpster: Wallace ducks into a corner, crouched with his hands over his head and mentally cursing himself for not having anything on him. Above him, Nic hasn’t stopped moving, kicking off the wall and unsheathing his sword in an oddly fluid movement before slashing at the second gunman. He drops as heavily as the first, an angry red line flowering across his jugular.

In hindsight, maybe it’s best that Wallace has no weapon. Bringing a knife to a gunfight only seems to work if your name is Nicolas Brown.

Dumpster Guy shouts a string of profanities that seem to be more directed at Nic than at him, charging towards him. Nicolas turns in time to see him pull something from underneath his shirt, and Wallace follows his gaze.

“Oh, fuck.”

Nicolas stops dead in his tracks; his heels kick up dust and leave bloody skid marks in the asphalt. Dumpster Guy holds up his tags, and from his position in the corner Wallace can make out the engraved A/4 like a blaring red flag.

Across from him, Nic’s own C/3 glints dully, and he looks down at his tags with something almost like surprise.

“Give it up, kiddo. I’ll even make it nice and quick for you and your Mama’s Boy here.”

Nic blinks at Dumpster Guy before looking at Wallace out of the corner of his eye. It’s quick, but Wallace has seen it before, in the library what seems like years ago. Like he’s waiting for a signal.

His throat closes up, and Wallace can only manage the smallest nod; more of an upward jerk of his chin.

It’s enough.

Nicolas is gone in a flash, springing out of gunshot range milliseconds before the trigger is pulled. Dumpster guy swears again and follows him: he’s easily twice Nic’s size, and catches up to him as they vault between the two closest rooftops. Wallace has to crane his neck to keep them in sight.

Dumpster Guy empties half his cartridge with little finesse, and Nic dodges the bullets with well-placed footwork, until a loose shingle makes him falter long enough for the brute to deliver a kick to his stomach. Wallace stretches out a useless hand as Nicolas is launched off the roof with the force of the kick, grabbing at the storm drain in an attempt to slow his fall.

“Nic!”

It’s only a one storey building, but he still lands on his back with a thud that makes Wallace cringe. He practically hears the air rush out of Nic’s lungs; a stunned expression crosses his features. Above him, Dumpster guy cracks his knuckles.

“I almost feel bad for ya, kid. Really. ‘Bout to let you and Eyepatch here die ‘cause you can’t take a goddamn hint.”

Nicolas grins.

(He seldom smiles, never laughs, not in the time that Wallace has known him. So when Nic propels himself off the ground to meet the other Twilight in midair with his teeth bared and his lips twisted upward, Wallace’s blood turns to ice, out of equal parts fear and fascination.)

They move fast—faster than Wallace can keep up with, let alone with one eye. One, two more gunshots ring out in the alley, out of sight. Then silence. Wallace wants to call out, but his mouth feels like it’s been sewn shut. His eye moves slowly from one body to another: pavement turns to bloodstained, polished floor, tattoo sleeves turn to suit jackets and dresses.

His back presses against the wall. It’s cold.

Another, louder thud makes Wallace jump. A third body’s been pushed facedown from the roof. Nicolas hits the ground after it, this time on his feet like a cat. His blade is dyed a dark, unforgiving red. A puddle is already forming under Dumpster Guy’s chest.

Nic stands over him with his back to Wallace, like a still frame from an old movie he’s replayed ten times, a hundred times in the middle of the night. His ruined eye pulses against his patch. _Turn, Nicolas. Turn and look at me, face me if you’re going to do this again._

_Look at me!_

When he does turn, the unsettling grin Wallace had seen is gone, replaced by Nic’s usual impassiveness and highlighted with what’s probably an extra dose of fatigue.

He sheathes his sword and huffs. _Pain in the ass._

Wallace lets out a laugh that sounds as shaky as his legs feel when he gets to his feet. “Jeez. You’re covered in blood.” He massages his patch absently.

Nic ignores it, waving away the comment along with the habitual movement. _None of it is mine. You okay?_

It catches him off guard, the raised concern on Nic’s behalf. Wallace’s fingers migrate to his burning cheek and come away crimson. “Peachy. Let’s get out of here.”

They run the rest of the way out of the district, police sirens far behind them; out of sight, out of mind, at least for today.

*

Back in the church, Wallace takes Nic’s T-shirt to the small bathroom to wash in the sink. He turns the cold tap on full blast and watches the fabric submerge. His own sleeves have blood on the cuffs, and he peels off his button-down and throws it in the sink with a splash. He rinses the cut on his face and shrugs into one of the only spare shirts they have: the sleeves are shorter, it might be Nic’s.

Wallace grips the sides of the sink and stares at his reflection in the scratched mirror. A boy he only dimly recognizes stares back; sunken cheeks, unkempt hair, bruises from a client earlier in the week staining his collarbone a pale green colour. Wallace reaches up a hand and pulls off his patch. It plops into the water along with their clothes.

He forces his eye open: scarred tissue gives way to empty whiteness. Artificial. He sometimes toys with the idea of switching the patch onto his working eye, so he wouldn’t have to see the world they’ve thrown themselves into. So he wouldn’t have to see things like today.

The sharpness of Nic’s smile finds its way to the front of his mind, unknown and unrestrained, and Wallace’s reflection swallows.

It had been so…easy. All it had taken was Wallace’s word—no, not even a word, an action, a hair trigger for Nicolas’ movements to cross that threshold from defense to attack; deliberate, bloodthirsty—

Maybe he’s overthinking. Wallace tends to do that. Nicolas only does as he’s told, after all. The tags around his neck add weight to his actions, weight that Wallace can pile on or take away, should he choose to do so. But for now, any and all consequence lies with the only one of them with a weapon. Wallace has no idea what he’s doing.

He could have been shot. Or Nicolas could have been shot, and he’d have been left alone. At this point, Wallace doesn’t know which is worse.

Water pools over the sides of the sink onto his hands, and Wallace shuts the squeaky taps with a sigh. Tiny red swirls snake their way through the water. He scrubs at the fabric with his hands, scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his fingertips are numb from the cold.

He wrings them out and is hanging them on the shower rack to dry when he thinks he hears something outside.

“Nic?”

Wallace doesn’t expect a response, of course, but a part of him suddenly wonders if there’s a gunman they hadn’t seen, one that followed them here. He moves through the hall as quietly as he can, until he’s met with the open air of the main chapel and, thankfully, no strangers.

“Nic, was that y—”

He freezes, one hand on the cracked wooden doorframe and the other outstretched in vain for the second time that day to a boy on the floor, struggling to force air into his lungs.

“Oh, shit.”

Wallace’s feet slip on the tile as he scrambles forward, followed by his knees when he drops to all fours by Nic’s side.

“Oh shit, oh shit…”

Nicolas is seizing, his legs kicking out blindly as he wheezes for breath. Wallace grabs his shoulders and turns him onto his side, dodging one of his knees in the process. Nic’s eyes meet his for a split second, the pupils like needlepoints, the whites wide and terrified.

Like a child.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Celebrer… Wallace keeps one hand on Nic’s shoulder, groping with the other on the bench behind him for the bag and dumping its contents on the floor. He shoves bottles aside – empty, almost empty, empty, unbroken seal – injector. Wallace’s hands are clumsy, and he drops the injector twice in an attempt to twist off the cap.

Beneath him, Nic makes a strange, strangled sort of noise. His skin is clammy, his hair sticky with sweat. His tags untangle themselves from his undershirt and hit the floor with a metallic ring. One of Nic’s hands curls into a fist in the fabric of Wallace’s shirt.

“Shit, fucking shit.” Wallace ends up using his teeth, mumbling curses around the tube in his mouth. Leaning his full weight on Nicolas, he shifts his grip and brings the injector down into the other boy’s thigh.

For a long, long minute, the only sounds are Wallace’s shaky breaths and Nic’s shallow, gasping ones. Wallace doesn’t move until Nic’s spasms grow further apart before stopping altogether. Nicolas doesn’t let go of Wallace’s shirt, not even when his tired legs go limp and his breathing begins to even out.

The empty injector falls from Wallace’s hand, and he bends over Nic like a man at prayer, checking him for any accidental injuries. Nicolas curls into him: he’s shivering. Wallace pulls him up, shifting into a sitting position with his back against the bench so he can act as a pillow of sorts. Nic ends up half in his lap, one thin shoulder nestled in the crook of Wallace’s knee.

Christ, Wallace thinks. He’s still so fucking small.

*

The pounding in Nic’s head doesn’t let up until shortly before sundown, and he forces himself to open his eyes despite every nerve in his body begging for more rest. His leg is sore. There are warm hands bracing his back, more warmth against his face and side.

Wallace is always warm, with the occasional temperamental flare and slow evening burns. It’s a constant Nic appreciates.

He twists to look up. Wallace’s patch is gone, and in the dimming light the flat white of his manufactured eye makes him look a little like a ghost. Nic has never seen a ghost, doesn’t really believe in them either, but sometimes he catches Wallace staring at nothing and wonders if he has.

Nicolas tugs at the fabric at Wallace’s chest. The other boy looks down: there are rings under his eyes. He hasn’t slept yet.

“Hey, Nic. You look like absolute crap.”

Nicolas untangles his hand from his shirt. It feels heavy. _Still better-looking than you._

Wallace laughs: it’s short, and Nic feels the vibrations of his body against him. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face and his scar. “You, uh. You scared me.”

His headache isn’t completely gone. Nic forces in a breath. _Sorry._ _It happens._

“‘It happens?’” Wallace scoffs and flicks his forehead. “You almost died, what, five different times today and all you can say is _‘it happens?!’_ ”

Nicolas rubs his head pointedly. _It’s not exactly new for me._

He feels Wallace sigh above him. “Yeah, well, it is for me,” Wallace admits. “I didn’t…I couldn’t do anything to help today. I just sat there and tried not to get shot. I didn’t even try very hard!”

 _You succeeded_ , Nic points out.

Wallace holds up his fingers as if to flick him again, and Nicolas mimes zipping his mouth shut. “You’re missing the point. I don’t want to be dead weight for you, Nic.”

Nic’s tags burn against his skin. _Sure it’s not the other way around? You’re burning a lot of money on Celebrer._ He pushes himself up to look at the empty bottles still strewn across the tile.

Wallace taps his head: it’s gentle, but feels more like a hammer striking his skull. Nic turns back to face him, surprised at how serious the other boy looks. “I don’t think of you like that. If you were a liability, I would have ditched you the first chance I got. I told you, Nic. You’re my friend.”

He signs ‘friend’ along with his reassurance, as if hoping to be more convincing. Perhaps it works; perhaps Wallace’s hands are just warm enough to dispel some of Nic’s headache.

Nicolas shrugs. _And you’d still be on that truck._

“See? At least we both have something going in our favour.” Wallace plays with a strand of his hair between two fingers, his other hand shoved in his lap. Nic watches it tremble.

 _Thanks for dosing me_ , he signs, when the silence presses down on his shoulders and lungs. _I didn’t want to cause trouble._

“Like I said. Scared shitless.” Worry passes like a cloud over Wallace’s face. “I’ve never seen…something like that before. You’re allowed to ask for help, you know.”

It’s Nic’s turn to sigh. Asking for help isn’t exactly a card he’s ever been comfortable playing—not with the mercs, not with his father, not with Wallace. To ask for help would be like admitting he’s different in the first place.

Toughing things out in silence as a Twilight isn’t the same as pretending to be human, is it?

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks back up into concerned blue and unsettling white. “Hey. You okay?”

_I’ll teach you._

Wallace raises an eyebrow. “Teach me what?”

 _How to defend yourself. It’s better than nothing, and you’re a fast learner_. Nicolas points to his temple for emphasis.

Wallace rolls his eyes, but one corner of his mouth threatens to tug upward. “You’d do that?”

Nic answers with a raised hand and an extended pinky finger.

Wallace blinks, then breaks into a smile, linking his finger with Nic’s. More warmth; like a second promise.

Nicolas must look about as tired as he feels, because Wallace suggests he should try to get some sleep, and that beauty contests and withdrawal probably don’t go together for a reason, and sorry was that too soon? He settles against him again, his head on Wallace’s thigh, the buzz of the other boy’s voice lulling him into much needed rest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if it is true? What everyone’s told him about Tags. That they’re no better than animals—bred for this kind of shit like fighting dogs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "by the end of the week" smfh.....sorry for the long wait, end of term papers appeared out of nowhere  
> thank you for your patience, sorry this one is so short! hopefully the next chapter won't be too much of a gap  
> i do have another project also in the works, a hq christmas gift for a friend, so i'll be juggling those over the month. anyways  
> thank you also for the comments and kudos again you are all so nice ;A;

 The sound of something scraping against the floor wakes Wallace from less-than-pleasant dreams. At some point in the night, he must have slipped from his sitting position against the pew, because he’s on his back, staring up at the angels on the walls and domed ceiling.

(They keep secrets well, the angels, and don’t reveal any hints of the way Nicolas barely stirred from his position against Wallace, not even when the older boy’s grip on him tightened in sleep riddled with memories. The angels don’t reveal any of those, either.)

Rubbing his eye, Wallace pushes to his feet in search of his patch. In the bathroom, he inspects his cheek in the mirror: it doesn’t look as bad as it felt, which he takes to be a good sign. Pulling the elastics over his head, he fiddles with the patch as he walks, and almost crashes into a bench he _knows_ wasn’t there before.

“What the—Nic?”

Benches are pushed against pillars, creating a wider open space in front of the altar. Nicolas is in the process of shoving one aside with his foot: twin bruises peek out from his undershirt, on his shoulder blades like wings.

Just looking at him makes Wallace tired again. He taps him on the arm, avoiding the discolouration. “What are you doing?”

Nic looks better than he did yesterday, all things considered. It’s hard to tell if he slept enough, if at all, but energy doesn’t seem to be a problem. What’s the dose concentration in those things?

_Making room. I said I’d teach you. The best way to teach you is on the spot._

Wallace starts. “Wait. Now? Like, right now, now?”

Nicolas looks confused. _Do you have anything else to do?_

Images of strobe lights and creaky beds tick in front of his eye and behind his patch; Wallace shakes his head to disperse them. “Okay, where do we start?”

 _There are a few rules._ Nicolas holds up one finger, flicking his wrist. _First. I don’t like talking and sparring at the same time. It’s annoying. Plus, I can’t focus on your lips._

Wallace unconsciously brings a hand to his mouth. Nic lifts another finger. _Second._ He pauses. _I can’t hurt you, it’s against the rules._

“I thought you were making the r—oh.” Wallace shifts uncomfortably. Alone together in a place like this, it’s easy to forget principles apply to them. “I guess, then. But don’t go easy on me! I’d rather get hurt and really learn than keep being useless.”

Nicolas meets his gaze. _That brings us to rule three. Don’t go easy on me either. You won’t hurt me, and besides…_ Something crosses Nic’s eyes, too quick for Wallace to decipher. One hand pauses to pull his tags from beneath his undershirt into view: he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s doing it. _I’m pretty sure you’d like a few good swings in._

Wallace frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Nic isn’t interested in talking anymore. He braces his feet and brings his arms up, and motions for Wallace to do the same. The minute Wallace copies his movement, Nic aims for his face.

He’s _fast_ —faster than in the alley, and Wallace stumbles backwards in an attempt to dodge the blow. Nic closes the gap again, and his next swing clips Wallace’s forearm. It hurts enough to make him wince, but part of him wonders if Nicolas is serious about not holding back: his face doesn’t reveal any hints, until their eyes meet and Wallace catches a spark that wasn’t there before.

Try me, Nic’s eyes reveal, and Wallace’s body responds in turn.

Nicolas sidesteps and ducks his punches with ease: there’s a foreign sort of grace to his movements, choreography only he knows as Nic’s boots squeal against the tile. Wallace moves in, a mimicry of Nic’s earlier action despite some neglected synapse in his brain firing off warning bells—away from danger, not towards it. But that’s not how Nicolas lives, and that’s not how Wallace can live right now.

His fist passes Nic’s block and connects with his chest, and Wallace feels a twinge of pride before something hits him in the stomach. He stumbles back with a groan, dodging Nic’s outstretched leg with a shuffle. For his part, Nicolas barely looks to have broken a sweat.

Nic’s eyes say far more than he does: _I see you. I see what you’re going to do. I see what you can’t do._ They pinpoint where Wallace’s blows fall before he lands them. He feels slow; cornered. Baited into something he can’t win. His nerves are unraveling with every thud of Nic’s forearms against his, every hot breath against him as the other boy gets close enough to bite. _Bite!_ Wallace reels back, suddenly fearful.

What if it _is_ true? What everyone’s told him about Tags. That they’re no better than animals—bred for this kind of shit like fighting dogs?

And Wallace walked right into the trap like meat on a string.

“Nic,” he says, lowering his hands, “Nic, I can’t—”

One of his legs is kicked out from under him, and as Wallace teeters in an effort to regain his balance Nicolas appears out of nowhere—at eye level, on his right, with the same grin Wallace saw in the alley.

**“I said no talking.”**

For the first time since that day at his home, Wallace feels something like cold fire in his arms and legs, white-hot behind his eye. It barely hurts when Nic’s elbow connects with his temple, every muscle in his body taut, stretched like rubber bands about to snap, or perhaps tightened steel strings in a church’s piano. Wallace blinks away the stars in front of his vision and ducks low, bringing his shoulder up into Nic’s ribs.

He’s rewarded with a groan that Nicolas has no way of hearing, but one that urges Wallace on. He lets his momentum carry him, shoving his weight against the shorter boy with none of the care he possessed the night prior. Nic staggers, his boots slipping on the tiles. The tables are turning: Wallace is steadily backing him into a corner, towards a wall beneath a cracked stained-glass window.

And yet.

Even in retreat, Nicolas holds his gaze evenly, between blocks and dodges, silent except for the controlled bursts of his breathing. It gives him an imposing air, like a cornered cat; a rabid animal. A scavenger plaguing the streets of this goddamn city.

God, what’s wrong with him?

What’s wrong with both of them?

Wallace wants to stop: at least, he wants to _think_ that he wants to stop. That’s what normal people do, right? Normals don’t fight like this. Agreeing to this was a mistake. This is beneath him. Stooping to Nic’s level—a sudden thought hits Wallace at the same time a defensive blow reopens the wound on his cheek, bringing the sting of clarity.

What if—what if this is how it starts? What if sparring like this takes away any remaining shred of humanity Wallace has been clinging to? If he can move his feet like this, if he can strike Nicolas until his fingers hurt and his head buzzes with unfinished business, how much further could he possibly go?

His fist connects with Nic’s jaw in frustration, and the other boy’s head snaps back. But he doesn’t fall: Nicolas spits blood at Wallace’s feet and laughs.

It’s a discordant, broken thing, high off Celebrer and the raw anger coming off Wallace in waves.

Anger at what? Wallace can barely tell, nor does he care to try to figure it out. Catalysts blur in and out of focus with every swing. His father. Nicolas. Himself. Nicolas. His father. This shithole. Nicolas. Nicolas.

Wallace hardly registers his own movements anymore, not the feel of fabric beneath his fingers as he grabs Nic by his undershirt, not the burn of the chain against his palm as it slips when he shoves him against the wall. The back of Nic’s head hits the limestone bricks; one of them cracks a little, dust and flakes fluttering to the ground at their feet.

Fucking Nic. Breaking everything he touches.

“We’re done,” Wallace hisses, steeling his gaze. Nicolas ignores him, wriggling in the taller boy’s grip. Wallace raises his arms, and Nic’s feet lift off the ground. He kicks out stubbornly, catching Wallace in the shin with enough force to almost make him buckle and drop him.

But Nic’s already taken enough of Wallace for one day—for one lifetime, really.

“I said we’re done,” Wallace repeats with a shake. “That’s an _order_ , Nicolas.”

For one, two seconds, Nic continues to struggle against him. Then, slowly, the struggles stop, and Nicolas sags in his grip like a puppet with broken strings.

Wallace drops him like he’s on fire. Nicolas lands lightly, fixing his undershirt and tucking in his tags. His head is down, out of sight. It seems like an eternity – a piece of frozen time decorated with panting breaths and unspoken words – before Nic looks up again, any trace of the feral Twilight wiped clean and replaced with the child soldier, ready for the next task.

But not Wallace. Wallace isn’t programmed to reset like this.

“Good lesson,” he says finally: his voice is hoarse, cracking. Nicolas can’t hear it.

Nicolas can’t hear any of it.

Wallace turns on his heel and grabs his pack of smokes from their stuff as he heads for the exit. “Don’t wait up,” he calls, but he knows he won’t get an answer. There aren’t many answers in Ergastulum.

*

It’s a long while before Nicolas moves from the wall. The bricks feel nice against his back, coated in a light sheen of sweat—from the seizure or from the fight, or maybe both, he doesn’t know.

He wonders if he should have called out, said something. But Nicolas speaks with his hands, whether there’s blood on them or not: his voice would barely have made a difference to Wallace.

His eyes are fixed on the door where he left. Nic isn’t sure when he’ll be back, but it probably won’t be for a while. He knows the cues of Wallace’s body that even he himself doesn’t know, the tightness of his shoulders, the clouds in his eye, the tremble in the fingers his chain had dug into. If he were to guess, Nic’s money would be on Big Mama’s—considering he avoids it like the plague, it would be his best bet.

No instructions were left for him. Not that Nic has to wait for them—Wallace has insisted on several occasions that he’s free to do what he wants, he doesn’t need his permission. It doesn’t do much for the twinge of unease in Nic’s gut; the feeling that something has shifted, something that he can’t see, much less hear.

Whatever. Nicolas hooks his sword through a loop and follows Wallace’s path to the door. He needs some air, or at the very least air that doesn’t suffocate him with the accusatory stares of painted angels.

It’ll be winter soon: Ergastulum is coated in shades of grey-blue, with the beginnings of a chill sinking into Nic’s bones and quelling the last of his adrenaline. He isn’t sure where he’s walking, letting his feet do the thinking, as he does with most of his decisions.

Has he crossed a line? No, that can’t be it—Wallace would have told him, wouldn’t he? Nic shakes his head. It’s not important. He can just ask Wallace about it later when he—

Something hits him in the shoulder from behind, and Nic’s sword is unsheathed before he finishes his about-face. A gun? It doesn’t hurt enough for that—his gaze moves to the broken capsule at his feet. The fuck? He’s never seen one of those at the manor before. In his periphery, he catches the silhouette of a woman, but she’s unfocused, swimming in front of his eyes.

A wave of dizziness overcomes him; Nic almost loses his footing. His sword clatters to the pavement.

The woman comes closer, and Nicolas realizes there are two of them—no, three. He feels stupid: he should have seen them. Why didn’t he see them?!

The woman raises a gun, and Nic raises his hands. He feels sluggish, unprepared. Vulnerable.

She’s close enough to touch him, and when she gives his shoulder a push Nicolas sinks to his knees too easily. The woman follows him, crouching down and inspecting his tags.

“Nicolas Brown.” Her eyebrows shoot up beneath shaggy blond bangs. “Mercenary?”

Her cigarette dangles close to his nose: it smells like a different brand than the ones Wallace smokes.

_Oh, shit. Wallace._

A hand waves in front of his face, and Nicolas blinks. Had the woman said something else? He stares blankly at her until she sighs and stands, dragging him up by one arm. In his confused state, Nic is torn between being grateful and remorseful that Wallace isn’t here.

“You’re going on a field trip, kid.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole thing takes maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty. Time is a concept Celebrer has never cared for, and when Nicolas tumbles off the final platform at the feet of the head of the Guild the only thing he has is the burn of his lungs and the rush of air between his teeth to indicate time has passed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well. where do i even start  
> first of all, thank you so, so, SO much to everyone for your kudos and comments. your feedback and nice words are honestly so inspiring to keep working on this fic and they always made my day! thank you for not giving up on me or on the boys, i received a comment as late as a few weeks ago-this fandom is like a little family and it really means the world to me that so many of you have stuck around. i really can't express it enough.  
> im super sorry for how long it took me to get an update going its been A Year but i have literally thought of this fic every day since last update it's important to me and i hope it continues to be important for you all too! i know my update schedule is shit im not even going to pretend it's not but you're all here and that's something so cool to me 
> 
> again, thank you all so so much for everything. you're all awesome for real

Her name is Gina Paulklee and Nicolas hates her the moment his system is alert enough to process the emotion. It burns in his chest like a lit cigarette, an itch he can’t scratch as he stands at attention in front of her. 

Who the fuck does she think she is?

Paulklee rounds him like a lioness, looking down her nose at him as if Nicolas is something on the bottom of her shoe. She keeps looking at his tags with an almost confused expression. 

“ **They’re the same as yours,** ” Nic says finally, when he can’t take it anymore.

She blinks: it’s the first words he’s spoken since they’ve arrived—well, wherever they are. A gutted hotel remodelled after an army barracks, in an unfinished basement, grey and hollow, with open rafters that smell like bat shit. 

Cozy. Reminds Nic of home. 

There are other Twilights here; like all the ones Nicolas has seen, they keep to the shadows. Paulklee turns and says something to one of them. Nicolas huffs loudly. 

She looks back and raises a thin eyebrow. “We keepin’ you from important business, kid?”

Nic says nothing. 

“Look. Until you’re processed, your business is my business.”

Processed?

There’s a clipboard in her hand. Nic zeroes in on the writing. C/3. 150. Blank. West Gate. Blank. Blank. “Rogue” circled, then scribbled out. 

He hates her. He hates her. 

“It’ll go easier on both of us if you cooperate. Who you workin’ for?”

Nicolas juts out his chin and holds her gaze. 

Paulklee runs a hand over her face. “Lemme spell it out for you. If you’re a free agent, you’re a problem. Problems end up in the Guild.” A quick jerk of her head to the kinetic shadows behind her. “We’re not terrible, and the mortality rate is at a two-year low right now, and—”

“ **Arcangelo**.”

Paulklee’s pen scratches against the board: Nicolas sees it quiver between her fingers. “Who?”

“ **Arcangelo. Owns my ass**.” Wallace’s name feels funny on his tongue, as if it’s not his to say. “ **He works at Pussy. Blond, like—** ” he waves his hand above his head at the other boy’s height, taking extra care not to punch Paulklee in the throat. 

More orders where Nicolas can’t see; someone slips away. Don’t hurt him, he wants to add, but he’s spoken out enough. It leaves him drained. 

Paulklee’s eyes burn holes into his skin. Nicolas prickles all over. He doesn’t have his Celebrer with him. Empty-handed, vulnerable; Nic is a pile of nerves and liabilities. 

Fingers snap in front of his face, and he blinks, focusing again on Paulklee, cheeks flaming. 

“I said, we have to reassess you.”

He frowns. More words he doesn’t understand. Reassess?

She reaches in her pocket and pulls out her cigarettes. Nicolas calls to mind Wallace’s pack, between his hands, the bitten nails of the fingers that balance his smoke at his lips. 

Restless. 

A tap on his tags reverberates through his chest cavity. Nicolas looks at Paulklee again: her eyes soften the slightest bit, unlit cigarette between her teeth. “Relax. You need new tags for the system, and then if you’re telling the truth about your contract—”

Nicolas bristles. If Paulklee notices, she doesn’t react. “—you’ll be returned to him.”

Returned. The shape of Paulklee’s lips on the word spit venom at Nicolas. Passed from hand to hand like a commodity, like packaged goods. 

In his mind’s eye, Nicolas sees Wallace, rings under his eyes, little finger extended. 

He nods at Paulklee. 

“Let’s get started, then.”

*

At work, Wallace downs two glasses of something bitter and lets his hands and mind wander. He opens legs, opens his own legs. He smiles and laughs and sighs and moans and collects his share of payment. Wallace recites novels in his head with his knees hooked on someone’s shoulders, and banishes the morning’s events to the cobwebbed corners of Big Mama’s club. 

The hours slip between his learning fingers; the buzzing neon bulbs replace the Sun and drown out the early winter wind. Alcohol warms Wallace’s blood, and a nagging part of his brain wonders if Nicolas is warm. 

Wallace has slept at work before—overtime to refill Nic’s Celebrer—and it’s no surprise for him to reappear, bleary-eyed and sore, late into the next day, paper bag in hand like a trophy. 

And Nicolas, waiting with ingrained patience, would almost smile. 

It’s no surprise, so when Wallace finally leaves Pussy with his collar turned up against the chill, and sees three Twilights in the evening dark of their boundary, he feels as if he’s been punched in the ribs all over again. 

“Arcangelo?” one of them asks: her hair is pulled away from her face in two neat braids, and her eyes are different colours. She holds a set of car keys in one hand. 

Wallace shrugs away the dull beginnings of a headache. “Who wants to know?”

“The Guild has a couple questions for you. Our boss sent us to—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Wallace puts his hands in front of him like an invisible brace. The world sways ever so slightly, an uncertain boat navigating a whirlpool. Behind him, a bouncer moves forward, but Wallace waves one of his outstretched hands. “I’m fine. They were just leaving.”

One of the other, bigger Twilights stares the bouncer down: finally the doorman huffs and retreats with a warning nod. 

Wallace turns back, frowning. “Why would the Guild need to talk to me? How did you even know where to—”

Realization hits him like a truck, like the kick of a child-sized combat boot with calculated force. “Nic. Where’s Nic? Is he—”

“Nicolas Brown is being processed,” says the girl. Her tags say C/0. “He’ll be returned to you once everything checks out.”

Wallace is reeling, rocking on his heels. “Returned? Nicolas isn’t my…”

And memories bear down on him like a maelstrom; the world pitches sideways. Nicolas and his ramrod-straight back. Nicolas with his eyes closed, leaning against the piano. Nicolas with blood on his face, his hands. Nicolas sprawled on a pew, napping. Nicolas reaching for his face with fingers curled into claws. 

C/0 raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Wallace squares his shoulders and shakes his head. He’s suddenly very sober. “Nothing. Lead on, before my boss kicks my ass.”

The Twilights turn into the darkness, and Wallace follows, digging in his pockets for a light.

*

The bunker, it turns out, is even more like home than Nic had thought—the second floor of the repurposed building is split cleanly in half, with beds on one side and exercise equipment on the other. Paulklee leads him past this area to the next floor in long, purposeful strides. It takes Nicolas two steps to keep up with every one of hers. 

The third floor, what looks like a ballroom, is outfitted with an obstacle course. Paulklee stops, and Nicolas almost crashes into her. Another Twilight materializes—so many, Nic thinks as he lets her tie off his arm and draw a blood sample. Like termites in the woodwork. 

The sample doesn’t hurt, not really, but Nic grimaces at the woman’s cold hands. He watches the three little vials fill, bright red with oxygen and his traitorous genes. 

The woman leaves in what Nic guesses is silence: the room swallows vibrations into its faded walls. The course coils around its sides like a cobra, ledges and ropes and dummies with burlap heads. 

The spectral hand of his father rests on the back of his neck, but when Nicolas turns to look Paulklee has one hand on her clipboard and the other on his sword. His ears suddenly burn: he’d barely realized its absence. 

Nicolas reaches for it, but Paulklee holds it up a little higher. “We’re testing you here for strength and agility,” she explains. Everything in her face and shoulders suggests boredom, but her eyes seem to soften again. “To make sure your rank is accurate.”

He looks out to the course, then back again. Paulklee motions with the sword. “Use this often, do you?”

Nicolas sets his jaw and nods. 

“Interesting. A merc with no gun.” Paulklee hands him his weapon, and Nic hastily ties the ribbon to his belt. He listens to her patient run of the obstacle course and what he must do: she points and waits for him to look out, get his bearings, before moving to the next stage. 

She looks like she wants to say something else, and she does. “Before we start, kid, you’ll have to, uh—”

Nic’s arm is already extended, palm up in a fist at a perfect ninety degrees. 

Paulklee blinks, then laughs (or sighs, Nicolas can’t tell) as she takes hold of his wrist and injects the Upper into his forearm. 

Nicolas is small; the effects are almost instantaneous. His vision sharpens, focuses like someone’s set a wide-angle lens in front of his eyes. The muscles in his legs are taut, fight or flight commanded in every cell of his body. 

In his periphery, Nicolas sees the elevator doors open. Celebrer and whatever passes as guilt for him seal off his vocal cords. 

When Wallace looks up at him, something in his face twists before it’s wiped clean. 

He needs to move. He needs—

“Go,” Paulklee says, with a tap on his shoulder, on the bruise from where he’d fallen. 

Instinct propels Nic’s feet, every footfall in synchrony with the rapid-fire cadence of his heart. He follows Paulklee’s instructions with detached precision: one-two-vault, step step step off the ledge, kill. Side flip, find the handholds, pull, pull, kill. Over, under, kill. Sprint. Kill. 

Twice Nicolas steals a glance at Wallace, in conversation with Paulklee. Both times Wallace doesn’t look at him: there are fresh marks at his throat, shadows under his eyes. He’s frowning at whatever Paulklee is saying. 

Kill, pivot, kill. Straw guts at his feet kicked up when Nic moves again. 

The whole thing takes maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty. Time is a concept Celebrer has never cared for, and when Nicolas tumbles off the final platform at the feet of the head of the Guild the only thing he has is the burn of his lungs and the rush of air between his teeth to indicate time has passed at all. 

Paulklee scribbles something illegible on the paper. Beside her, Wallace is a statue, an oil painting of one of the aristocrats that used to hang in his library. For a moment, they look like ghosts of their past selves: Wallace with a furrowed brow and tight lips, Nicolas with one hand on the hilt of his sword and a drug-fuelled system awaiting instruction. 

Nicolas focuses on Paulklee, on the cigarette in her mouth as she speaks. “Your tags will be engraved and you'll report here in two weeks to collect them.” She looks up from her clipboard. “Worick, I need you to sign some paperwork regarding the…incident in the fourth district yesterday.”

Nic looks around to see who she’s talking to, but to his surprise, Wallace dips his head in a nod. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Paulklee chews the end of her cigarette. “This is your first and only warning, kid.” She’s looking at both of them, now, locking them under her gaze in a way that seems uncomfortably familiar. “Next time, there’ll be more than papers for you.”

Both boys nod furiously. Paulklee blows a ring of smoke before mashing her cigarette into the floor with her boot. “Come downstairs. We’ll get your merc a Downer.”

Nicolas tries to replicate the shapes of Paulklee’s mouth on the new name; Wallace meets his eyes, but says nothing. Nic watches him scan the reports of a triple homicide—five pages exonerating them and acknowledging the processing of a Twilight into Ergastulum—in the time it takes his hopped-up body to breathe twice. Breaths three through seven occupy his signature: Wallace writes slower than Nic has seen before. 

Breath eight, they’re escorted to the elevator. Paulklee watches them until the doors slide shut behind them. Breath ten, Nicolas is given another injection. Wallace trains his eyes on his arm wordlessly. 

Breath fifteen, they’re outside, the bitter November cold like a corpse’s embrace.

“Let’s go,” Wallace says, or maybe Nicolas just imagines it: the other boy walks briskly, a cigarette between his lips. 

Nic follows. It takes him a block and a half to realize Wallace stays as far from shadows as possible.

*

The walk back to the cathedral is shorter than the drive to Paulklee territory from work, but Wallace’s tired mind has enough time to process emotions as fast as he can read an atlas, an almanac. Anger, confusion, resignation, anger again, relief—they burn in his chest along with the smoke from his Pall Malls. 

Behind him, Nic’s stride is slowing; the Downer sinks into his limbs and drags his feet on the dusty ground. Wallace reaches behind him and pulls him along by the wrist. Nicolas doesn’t resist. 

In the cathedral, the air is crisp, cold, no wind or faraway wails of sirens to drown out Wallace’s cacophony of thought. He turns, rubs his jaw with one hand. 

“Nic—”

“ **Who is Worick?** ” 

Wallace is taken aback. Nicolas holds his gaze beneath the haze of the drugs, caught between a high and a low, a limbo of energy and questions. “No one. He’s…it’s nothing.” Words feel wasteful on his tongue, sometimes, when it comes to Nicolas. 

Nic pulls off his sword, and it clatters to the floor with a piercing echo. _You’re angry._

“I’m not angry,” Wallace says automatically, before he has a chance to make sure it’s right. “I’m…I didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

He turns away, taking a long drag of his cigarette and holding it in his lungs long enough to ache. It’s true—he wouldn’t wish hurt on Nicolas. Where would that leave him? What good would it do to have the only thing in his life torn away, even if that thing was responsible for tearing away everything else?

He feels a twinge of guilt at this. Nicolas isn’t a thing. Not in the morning, not in the evening, not when he’s sparring with Wallace or driving his blade through another man’s chest. 

There’s a tap on his shoulder. Nicolas is frowning, his signs slightly jerky. _I want to fix it._

“There’s nothing to fix. Paulklee got us off the hook.” Wallace is glad Nicolas can’t hear the concern in his voice: the Guild had been quick to pick up on the attack, quicker to put Nic in their system. They're caught between hidden and vulnerable. People know who they are. 

Wallace ashes his cigarette on the polished side of a nearby pillar. “We’re gonna be fine, Nic.”

This close, Nic’s eyes are dark, pupils blown with drugs, and Wallace is almost certain he can see straight through to his soul. _Are we?_

And something in Wallace, a part of him that longs for relief that never seems to come, that starves for stability, ignites; a faulty lighter that shoots sparks into the furthest recesses of the abandoned church, into Wallace’s bones. It raises his arms like a puppet, pulls Nicolas closer to him, until Nic’s surprised mouth finally meets his. 

Nicolas is awkward against him, a foil to the likes of those he deals with at work. He tastes like metal, copper maybe, and the trace of patchouli of the soap he uses. Wallace’s hands move unconsciously to his hair, jet-black and surprisingly soft, especially at the nape of his neck where the buzzed cut of mercenaries is growing into down. 

He’s flush against him like this, with Nic backed against the pillar and Wallace’s body against him like a puzzle. Nicolas’ hesitation dissolves, and Wallace feels his tongue along his bottom lip, slow enough to make him moan and—

Oh, no. Oh, _fuck_ no. 

Wallace wrenches himself away like he’s been burned. He doesn’t dare back up, not from Nicolas: naive, confused Nicolas, seemingly oblivious to the growing problem in Wallace’s pants. 

He makes a point not to bring work home with him. It’s his only rule. And Nicolas is so _young_. Innocent? Hardly. But Wallace’s face feels on fire, his breath in short gasps inches from the other boy. 

What’s he done? He asks himself for the tenth time that day. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally chokes out. 

Nicolas wears a mask of shock, lips slightly parted, swimming focus zeroed on Wallace. _For what?_

“Go to sleep, Nicolas. Please.” Wallace buries his teeth in his bottom lip. “You’ve had two heavy doses in two days.”

For a long, long moment, Nicolas doesn’t move. Wallace does not meet his eyes as he finally pulls away enough for Nic to push off the pillar: he doesn’t say anything more, instead letting himself drop onto the first pew he sees. He’s out in under a minute. 

Unfazed. Undeterred. 

Wallace is two people, two names, in the ruined body of a teenager with one eye. Some ten feet away, a second teenager with no hearing sleeps unknowing of the war in the walls of the cathedral. 

He goes to the bathroom to finish himself off, and turns the tap on so Nicolas can’t hear his stammered apology, carried off by the steam and the clouds of his breath. It doesn’t change a damn thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm active on [tumblr](http://auxanges.tumblr.com) between updates. hq is next i promise (and it wont be a year of wait LOL)


End file.
